Do you hate hospitals? Almost everybody does. But today, my ten hours in a regional medical center tending to my ailing father weren’t awful. I went in well-armed with bottled water, Arnica creams, essential oils, and yes, even Steven Halpern’s angel music. And I didn’t eat the hospital’s airline-quality food, driving to a Ruby Tuesdays instead around noon where I purchased two generous plates of salad bar fixin’s. “Back to my father’s hospital room!” I announced to the bartender. “Oh, good luck!” he said.

I’ve found that when you share news with strangers, they are almost always there for you.

The world takes on a dreamy quality when someone dear to you is seriously ill. “Is he dying?” I asked myself, staring into dad’s unshaven, sleeping face. No, not yet, came the answer. In a weird flash-forward, I imagined his body even thinner, skin sunken, taut, and translucent–the way it got for my mother at the end. He isn’t at that stage yet, though in many ways, I know he longs for an end soon. “God wants you alive,” I told him yesterday, “You’ve got more to do. We’ll all here to help you figure out what’s next.”

Dad’s occupational therapist told my brother and me about new pieces of elder-care equipment we must buy. I was proud of my architectural renderings of the first floor of dad’s home, sketched on scrap paper to demonstrate to her how difficult it’s going to be for him to move around. I caught dad staring at us from his wheelchair across the rehab unit’s “gym,” and knew he was troubled by all our proposed changes. He is worried we’ll spend too much money on him. And of course we will, since we are baby boomers striving for perfection.

As the sun cast longer shadows, I read him an article from his favorite conservative periodical, “The Weekly Standard.”

“Do you get the “Standard” at home?” he asked weakly, flat on the bed, with all the gravity of the Goldwater Republican that he is.

He thinks I don’t consider “the other side,” but I know “Weekly Standard” writers! So I stretched the truth and implied that I read the “Standard” all the time.

“You do?” Dad said, eyes widening, surprised.

“Well, I see it,” I assured him, veering more towards the truth.

My father’s head relaxed into his pillow. He seemed content, and he fell asleep soon afterwards.

Should I feel guilty?